Stan Nicholls - Orcs First Blood 02 - Legion Of Thunder

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1
Death moved sinuously through the water.
Grim purpose set her face like stone. She dived deep, impelling herself with powerful strokes from splayed, webbed
hands. Her ebony hair flowed free, an inky squid cloud billowing in her wake. Tiny threads of bubbles streamed from
her palpitating gills.
She looked back. Her nyadd raiding swarm, massed ranks swim-ming in formation, was wreathed in an eerie green glow
from the phosphorescent brands they carried to light their way. They held jagged-edged coral pikes. Bowed
adamantine daggers were sheathed in reed halters criss-crossing their scaly chests.
The murk started to clear, allowing glimpses of the sandy ocean floor, peppered with jutting rocks and swaying foliage.
Soon the begin-nings of a reef came into view, white and craggy, smothered with purple-tinged fungus. She swept
over it, her warriors in tow. They followed the reef's outline, moving fast just above its surface, and this close the
corruption was plain to see. Diseased vegetation, and the scar-city of fish, bore witness to the creeping taint. Scraps of
dead things floated past, and the unseasonable cold, near freezing the water, was greater at such a depth.
She lifted a hand as they sighted their goal. The troopers let go of the radiant brands, showering the seabed with an
emerald cascade. Then they glided in to gather around her.
Ahead of them, where the reef's spine widened, was a stony bluff, riddled with hollows and caves, both natural and
artificial. From this distance there was no sign of occupants. She signalled her orders. A dozen warriors separated and
made for the enemy cluster, low and stealthy. The rest, with her leading, slowly brought up the rear.
As they neared the redoubt they spotted their first merz, a scattered handful of sentries, ignorant of the approaching
advance party. She re-garded them with loathing. Their resemblance to humans was only partial, yet she was
disgusted by it. To her mind, this, as much as any dispute over territory or food supplies, justified making war. Halting
the column, she watched as her scouts moved in.
Two or three warriors targeted each guard. The one closest was male. His bearing was careless, and it seemed he was
mindful only of the odd predator rather than the threat of a sneak attack. He drifted, half turning, and confirmed her
repugnance.
The merzmale's upper body and head were much like a human's, except for razor thin gills on either side of its torso.
Compared to a human, its nose was more broad and flattened, and the eyes were covered with a filmy membrane. There
was no hair on the creature's chest or arms. But it did sport a head of rust-coloured locks and a short curly beard.
Below the waist it differed radically from the human form and was closer in appearance to the nyadds. Here the milky
flesh gave way to shiny overlapping scales covering a long, slender tail that ended in a large, fan-shaped fin.
The merz was armed with its race's traditional weapon, a spear-length three-pronged trident with arrowhead points.
Two warriors closed in on him. They advanced from the back and side, exploiting the sentry's blind spots, swimming at
speed. The merzmale stood little chance. Levelling its barbed pike, the nyadd from the right struck hard, piercing the
merz just above his waistline. The shallow blow wasn't fatal, but it served as a painful distraction. As the aston-ished
merz turned to face his attacker, the second nyadd arrived at his back. He held a sawtoothed dagger. Snaking his hand
around the en-emy's neck, he slashed the merz's throat.
The sentry thrashed wildly for a moment, a crimson cloud billowing from the gaping wound. Then his lifeless body
began sinking toward the seabed, trailing red streamers like scarlet ribbons.
Holding back with the main force, she looked on as her forward scouts tackled the rest of the guards.
Similarly taken unawares, a merz was being held by one nyadd as another used a dagger to puncture his chest. A
female of the species, a merzmaid, spiralled to the bottom with a spear jutting from between her bare breasts. She fell
silently mouthing her pain. Lashing out in panic, a merzmale swiped at a nyadd with his knife, forgetting that jabbing is
more effective than slashing movements underwater. He paid for the lapse with a pike thrust to his innards.
Swiftly, brutally, the sentinels were efficiently murdered. When the last was overcome, the killers signed word to her
through water tinted with a pink haze.
It was time to deploy the entire swarm. At her direction they ad-vanced, filling their hands with weapons and
spreading out. The silence was total. All that moved apart from the nyadd warriors was the guards' floating corpses.
The force had almost reached its goal when there was a flurry of activity at the honeycombed stronghold. Suddenly
the edifice disgorged a horde of heavily armed merz. They made a strange sound as they poured out, a high-pitched
oscillating wail that served as their language, a noise made more bizarre as it was distorted by travelling throughwater.
That was something else she hated about them. Now her loathingfound a purpose.
At the prow, she led her corps to meet the unorganised defenders. In seconds, invaders and protectors were flowing
into each other, the two sides instantly fragmenting into a myriad lethal skirmishes.
Merz magic, like the nyadds' own, was of the descry variety, and most often employed to hunt food or navigate the
deep. It had little martial importance. This was a battle to be fought with brawn and skill, blade and spear.
Giving off its keening song, a merzmale swooped in from above bearing a trident. The triple spikes drove deep into the
chest of the warrior beside her. Mortally wounded, the nyadd writhed and twisted so much that he tore the trident from
the merz's grasp. He sank from view clutching the spear and leaving a red trail.
His main weapon lost, the merzmale drew a knife, a miniature ver-sion of the trident, and turned his attention to her. He
lashed out. She avoided the blow. The force of the merz's action had its reaction, pro-pelling him to one side and
putting him into a half-spin. But he recov-ered quickly and returned to face her.
She swiftly seized the wrist of his knife hand. Then he saw that her knuckles were wrapped in leather thongs dotted
with sharpened metal dowels. He made a desperate grab for her free wrist. Too late. Still holding on to him with one
hand, she made a fist of the other and set to pummelling his midriff. At the precise instant she delivered the third
punch, she released her grip. The power of the blow impelled him away from her. He looked down at his flowing
lacerations, face wreathed in agony, and was swallowed by the chaos.
There were shreds of fishy tissue on her knuckle studs.
A movement at the corner of her vision made her turn. A merzmaidwas swimming at her, pointing a trident. With a
powerful surge of her muscular tail the nyadd shot upwards, narrowly escaping the charge. Unstoppable, the merzmaid
sailed into a knot of the nyadd's followers. They speared and slashed the life from her.
All around, fights raged; one on one, group against group. Everywhere, pairs of antagonists were locked in the
outlandish spiral dance, hands clamped to wrists, arms straining to plunge home a dagger. Grievous wounded dyed
the water; the dead were elbowed aside.
The nyadd vanguard was fighting on the redoubt itself. Some were battling their way into its entrances. She made to
join them.
A merzmale with blazing eyes darted in to block her. He held a toothed blade the length of a broadsword, with a
two-handed hilt. To counter the weapon's reach, she produced her own blade; shorter butacute as a scalpel. They
circled each other, oblivious to the melee on every side.
He lunged forward, intent on running her through. She dodged, batting his blade with her own, hoping to knock it free.
He held on to the weapon, quickly rallied and plunged it at her again. A pirouette movement turned her from the
blade's path. His outstretched arm was exposed. She struck out at it with a studded knuckle, managing only a glancing
blow but still slicing deep into flesh. Her foe was preoccupied enough to let her follow through with the blade. It found
his heart. There was an eruption of gore. Pulling loose the blade, she released a gush of ruby-coloured globs. Open
mouthed, the merz died.
She kicked away the corpse and returned her attention to the storming of the redoubt.
By now her swarm was all over it. Many had entered to complete the slaughter. In obedience to her orders, the
remaining merz were being brutally despatched and the enemy nest cleared. She swam past one of her warriors
strangling a thrashing merzmale with a chain while another nyadd stabbed at the victim with a spear.
Few merz remained alive. One or two survivors had fled and were swimming away, but she was content with that. They
would spread the word that colonising anywhere near her domain was a bad idea. As she looked on, the young of the
merz race were dragged from the redoubt and put to death, according to her instructions. She saw no point in letting
trouble brew for the future.
When the deed was done, and she was satisfied that the mission had been accomplished successfully, she ordered the
swarm to withdraw.
While heading away, accompanied by her minions, a warrior beside her pointed back to the redoubt. A pack of shony
were moving in to feast. These were long and sleek, with skins that glistened silvery blue.
Their mouths were impossibly long gashes which in side view parodied a smile. When opened, endless rows of sharp
white teeth were exposed. Their eyes were dead.
The creatures didn't unduly bother her. Why should they attack the swarm when they had an abundant supply of
ready-butchered meatavailable?
Maddened with greed, the shony set to downing chunks of bloody flesh in great gulps. They stirred up fusty clouds
on the seabed as they thrashed and snapped at each other. Several fought for the same morsel, teeth fastened, tugging
at it from opposite sides. More scavengers
swept in.
The swarm left the feeding frenzy behind, and in due course began to travel upward, towards a distant ring of light. As
they ascended she allowed herself a moment's gratification at the fate of the merz. A little more decisive action and any
threat they posed to her sovereignty would be nipped in the bud.
If only the same could be said of other races, especially the humanpestilence.
They reached the mouth of a spacious underwater cave, its interior lit by nuggets of the phosphorescent rock. She
entered at the head of the swarm. Ignoring the obeisance of the detachment of guards inside, she rose to a large
vertical shaft in the cave's ceiling, which was also illuminated. The shaft came to a junction and branched into twin
chan-nels, like vast flues. Accompanied by two lieutenants, she swam up into the right-hand passage. The rest of the
swarm took the left, to theirbillet.
Minutes later her party emerged from the water. They surfaced in an immense space flooded almost waist deep;
permanently and delib-erately so, to meet the needs of an amphibious race requiring constant access to water. The
half-submerged structure was part coral, part crum-bling rock. Overhead, stalactites had formed. To an untutored eye it
might appear a ruin, with a portion of one wall absent and the others covered in slime and patterned with lichen. The
smell of rotting vege-tation hung in the air. But in nyadd terms it was an antechamber to apalace.
The missing section of wall afforded a view of marshlands, and beyond that the grey ocean, dotted with sinister,
craggy islands. An angry sky met the horizon.
Nyadds were perfectly suited to their environment. If a slug had grown to the size of a small horse, developed a
carapace like armour and learned to stand upright on a brawny, muscle-lined tail; if it had sprouted backfins and arms
with wickedly clawed hands; if its yellowgreen hide dripped with tendrils and it had a head like a reptile, with thrusting
jaw, mandible mouth, needle teeth and sunken beady eyes, it would have been something like a nyadd.
But it wouldn't have been like her.
Contrary to the nyadds she ruled, she was not pure bred. Her mixed race origins had given her a unique physiognomy.
She was a symbiote, in her case a blend of nyadd and human, though the nyadd strain was primary. Or at least she
chose to think it so. Her human ancestry was abhorrent to her, and none who valued their lives would dare remind her
of it.
In common with her subjects, she possessed a sturdy tail, and backfins, though the latter more closely resembled flaps
of skin than the hardier, toughened membranes of her subjects. Her upper body and mammary glands, which were
bare, combined skin with scales, the scales being much smaller than the nyadd norm and faintly rainbow-hued. Gill
slashes patterned both sides of her trunk.
Her head, while unmistakably reptilian in aspect, was where her human heritage was most obvious. As distinct from
the pure bred, she had hair. Her face had a faintly bluish tint, but her ears and nose were nearer human than nyadd
shape, and her mouth could pass for a woman's.
She had eyes that were much rounder, and lashed, though their vivid green orbs had no comparison.
Only in her nature was she typical nyadd. Of all the sea-dwelling races, theirs was the most obstinate, vindictive and
war-like. If anything, she had these traits to a greater degree than her subjects, and perhaps owed that to her human
legacy too.
Wading to the breach in the wall, she surveyed the bleak landscape. Aware of her lieutenants hovering near by,
anticipating any need she might express, she sensed how tense they were. She liked tense.
'Our losses were meagre, Queen Adpar,' one of her lieutenants ven-tured to report. His voice was deep, and had a
gritty quality.
'Whatever the number it's a small price to pay,' she replied, pulling off her studded knuckle straps. 'Are our forces
ready to occupy the liberated sector?'
'They should be on their way now, ma'am,' the other lackey told her.
They'd better be,' Adpar retorted, casually tossing the knuckle straps his way. He caught them awkwardly. It wouldn't
have gone well with him if he hadn't. 'Not that they'll get much trouble from the merz.' she went on. 'It'd take more than
peace-loving vermin to prevail against an enemy like the nyadd.'
'Yes, Majesty,' said the first lieutenant.
'I don't look kindly on those who take what is mine,' she added darkly, and unnecessarily as far as her minions were
concerned.
She glanced at a niche carved in one of the coral walls. It housed a fluted stone pedestal obviously intended to display
something. But whatever it was had gone.
'Your leadership assures our victory,' the second lieutenant fawned.
Unlike one of her siblings, who cared nothing about what others thought but expected absolute obedience, Adpar
demanded both sub-missionand praise. 'Of course,' she agreed. 'Merciless supremacy, backed with violence; it runs in
my side of the family.'
Her attendants wore looks of incomprehension.
'It's a female thing,' she said.
2
Coilla was in pain.
Her entire body ached. She was on her knees in muddy grass, dazed and winded. Shaking her throbbing head to clear
it, she tried to make sense of what had happened.
One minute she was chasing that fool Haskeer. The next, she was thrown from her horse when three humans came out
of nowhere.
Humans.
She blinked and focused on the trio standing in front of her. The nearest had a scar running from the middle of his
cheek to the corner of his mouth. His pockmarked face wasn't improved by an untidy mous-tache and a mass of greasy
black hair. He looked fit in an unfit sort of way. The one next to him appeared even more dissolute. He was shorter,
leaner, slighter. His hair was tawny and a near-transparent goatee clung to his chin. A leather patch covered his right
eye, and his leering grin revealed bad teeth. But the last of them was the most striking. He was the biggest by far,
easily outweighing the other two combined, but it seemed like all muscle, not flab. His head was shaved, he had a
squashed, abused nose and deep-sunk piglet eyes. He was the only one not holding a weapon, and probably didn't
need to. All of them gave off the distinctive, faintly unpleasant odour peculiar to their race.
They stared back at her. There was no mistaking their hostility.
The one with the bad skin and oily hair had said something, but she hadn't taken it in. Now he spoke again, addressing
his companions, not her.
'I reckon she's one of them Wolverines,' he said. ‘Matches the description.'
'Looks like we struck lucky,' the one with the eyepatch decided.
'Don't put a wager on it,' Coilla rumbled.
'Oooh, she'sfeisty,' One-Eye jeered in mock dread.
The big, stupid-looking individual appeared less smug. 'What do we do, Micah?'
'She's but one, and a female at that,' Pox Face told him. 'You ain't afeared of a little lone orc, are you? We've dealt with
enough of 'em in the past.'
'Yeah, but the others could be about,' Big and Stupid replied.
Coilla wondered who the hell these characters were. Humans were bad enough at the best of times, butthese . . . Then
she noticed the small, rough, blackened objects hanging from Pox Face's and One-Eye's belts. They were shrunken
orcs' heads. That left no doubt about what kind of humans she'd fallen among.
One-Eye was glancing warily into the surrounding trees.
Pox Face scanned the terrain too. 'Reckon we would have seen 'em if they was.' He pinned Coilla with a hard gaze.
'Where's the rest of your band?'
She adopted an air of sham innocence. 'Band? What band?'
'Are they in these parts?' he persisted. 'Or did you leave 'em back in Scratch?'
She kept silent and hoped her face didn't betray anything.
'We know that's where you were heading,' Pox Face said. 'Are the others still there?'
'Fuck off and die,' she suggested sweetly.
He gave her an unpleasant, thin-lipped smile. 'There's hard ways and easy ways of making you talk. Don't much matter
to me which you want.'
'Should I start breaking her bones, Micah?' Big and Stupid offered, lumbering closer.
Coilla had been putting an effort into re-gathering her wits and strength. She centred herself, getting ready to act.
’Isay we kill her and done with it,' One-Eye offered impatiently.
'Ain't no use to us dead, Greever,' Pox Face retorted.
'We get the bounty on her head, don't we?'
'Think,stupid. We want all her band, and so far she's our best chance of finding 'em.' He turned back to her. 'So what
you got to tell me?'
'How about eat dung, scum sucker?'
'Wha—?'
She kicked out at him with all her force, the heels of her boots cracking hard against his shins. He yelled and went
down.
The other two humans were slow to react. Big and Stupid literallygaped at the speed of her movement. Coilla leapt to
her feet, despite the pain in her legs and back, and snatched up her sword.
Before she could use it, One-Eye recovered and piled into her.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs and slammed her to the ground again, but she held on to the blade. They
fought for possession. rolling, kicking, punching. Then Big and Stupid and an enraged Pox Face joined in. Coilla took a
whack to the jaw. Her sword was dashed from her hand and bounced away. Delivering a roundhouse punch to
One-Eye's mouth, she twisted from his grasp. She scrambled away from the scrum.
'Get her!' One-Eye yelled.
'Take her alive!' Pox Face bellowed.
'Like fuckyou will!' Coilla promised.
Big and Stupid charged in and grabbed one of her thrashing legs. She turned and swung at him, battering his head
with her fists, putting all she had into the blows. It did about as much good as spitting to put out Hades. So she
slammed the boot of her other foot into his face and pushed. He grunted with the effort of hanging on, her boot
sinking deeper into his reddening, fleshy cheek. The boot won. His hold on her leg broken, he staggered backwards
and fell awkwardly.
Coilla started to get up. An arm came round her neck and tightened. Gasping for breath, she drove her elbow into Pox
Face's stomach, hard. She heard him gasp and did it again. He let go. This time she got as far as standing, and was
trying to draw one of the knives bolstered in her sleeve when One-Eye, mouth bloodied, crashed into her again. As
she went down, the other two returned to the fray.
Still suffering the after-effects of her fall, she knew she was no match for them. But it wasn't in her nature, or that of
any ore, to surrender meekly. They fought to pin down her arms. Twisting about to escape this, she found herself in
close proximity to the side of One-Eye's head. Specifically, his ear.
Coilla sank her teeth into it. He shrieked. She bit down harder. One-Eye thrashed wildly, but couldn't free himself from
the tangle of limbs. She tore at the ear savagely, provoking ever louder agonised howls. Flesh stretched and began
parting. There was a salty taste in her mouth. With a final jerk of her head, a chunk of ear ripped off. She spat it out.
One-Eye struggled free and rolled on the ground, clutching the side of his head and wailing.
'Bitch . . . whore . . . freak. . . !'
Suddenly Pox Face was looming over Coilla. His fist came down several times on her craggy temple, knocking her
senseless. Big and Stupid clamped her shoulders and finished the job.
’Tie her,' Pox Face ordered.
The big man hauled her to a sitting position and took a length of cord from the pocket of his squalid jerkin. Roughly,
her wrists were bound.
Stretched in the dirt, One-Eye was still shouting and cursing.
Pox Face lifted Coilla's sleeve and took away her knives. He com-menced patting the rest of her for more weapons.
Behind them, One-Eye moaned loudly and thrashed about some more.'I'll. ..fucking kill. . . her, ' he bleated.
'Shut up!' Pox Face snapped. He dug into his belt pouch and found a piece of grubby cloth. 'Here.'
The balled cloth landed beside One-Eye. He took it and tried to staunch the blood. 'My ear, Micah,' he grumbled. The
fucking little monster . . .My ear!'
'Ah, stow it,' Pox Face said. 'You never did listen anyway, Greever.'
Big and Stupid boomed with laughter. Pox Face took it up.
'It ain't funny!' One-Eye protested indignantly.
'One eye, one ear,' the vast human cackled, jowls undulating. 'He's got. . . the set!'
The pair of them roared.
'Bastards!' One-Eye exclaimed.
Pox Face looked down at Coilla. His mood changed instantly and completely. 'I reckon that wasn't too friendly, ore.'
The tone was pure menace.
'I can be a lot more unfriendly than that,' she promised him.
Big and Stupid sobered. Muttering, One-Eye climbed to his feet and tottered over to them.
Crouching beside her, reeking fetid breath, Pox Face said, 'I'm ask-ing again: are the other Wolverines still in Scratch?'
Coilla just stared at him.
One-Eye kicked her in the side. Talk, bitch!'
She took the blow and repaid it with another show of silent defiance.
'Cut it out,' Pox Face told him. But he didn't sound overly con-cerned about her welfare.
Glowering, One-Eye pressed the cloth to his ear and looked mur-derous.
'Is it Scratch?' Pox Face repeated to her. 'Well?'
"You really think the three of you could go against the Wolverines and live?"
'I'masking the questions, bitch, and I'm not good at patience.' Hepulled a knife from his belt and held it in front of her
face. Tell me where they are or I start with your eyes.'
A slow pause and some quick thinking occurred. Finally she said. 'Hecklowe.'
'What?'
'She's lying!' One-Eye interjected.
Pox Face looked sceptical too. 'Why Hecklowe? What are they doing there?'
'It's a freeport, isn't it?'
'So?'
'If you have something to sell, it's where you'll get the highest price.' She made it seem that she was giving this out
with reluctance.
'Hecklowe's that kind of place, Micah,' Big and Stupid offered.
'I knowthat,' Pox Face retorted testily. He returned his attention to Coilla. 'What have your kind got to sell?'
She baited the hook with a strategic silence.
'It's what you stole from the Queen, ain't it?'
Coilla slowly nodded, desperately hoping they'd buy the lie.
'Seems to me it must be something real precious to go renegade and upset the likes of Jennesta. What is it?'
She realised they didn't know about the instrumentalities, the arti-facts she and the band called stars. No way was she
going to enlighten them. 'It's a ... trophy. A relic. Very old.'
'Relic? A valuable of some kind? Treasure?'
'Yes, a treasure.' She meant the word in a way he'd never under-stand.
'Iknew it!' There was avarice in his eyes. 'It had to be something big.'
Coilla realised these bounty hunters, which was obviously what they were, could accept that the Wolverines had gone
rogue in pursuit of gain. They would never have bought the notion of them acting for an ideal. It fitted their jaundiced
view of the world.
'So why ain't you with 'em?' One-Eye butted in, glaring at her suspiciously.
It was the question she was dreading. Whatever she came out with had to be convincing. 'We had some trouble on the
trail. Ran into a bunch of Unis and I got parted from the band. I was frying to catch them up when—'
'When you ran into us,' Pox Face interrupted. 'Your bad luck, our good fortune.'
She dared to hope that he at least believed her. But Coilla knew shewas taking a risk if they did. They might decide
she'd served her pur-pose, kill her and be on their way. Taking her head with them.
Pox Face stared at her. She braced herself.
'We're going to Hecklowe,' he announced.
'What about her?' asked One-Eye.
'She's coming with us.'
'Why? What do we need her for now?'
'A profit. Hecklowe's just about the best place to strike a deal with slavers. Some pay plenty for an ore bodyguard in
times like this. Par-ticularly for an orc from a crack fighting unit.' He jerked his head at the big man. 'Get her horse,
Jabeez.'
Jabeez trudged toward her mount, which was grazing a little way off, unconcerned.
One-Eye, still fussing with what was left of his ear, didn't look happy. But he kept his peace.
To Coilla it seemed like a good time for token objections. 'Slavery.' She almost spat the word. 'Another sign of
Maras-Dantia's decline. That's something else we owe you humans for.'
'Shut your noise!' Pox Face snapped. 'Get this straight, ore. All you mean to me is the amount you're worth. And you
don't need a tongue to ply your trade. Understand?'
Coilla breathed an inward sigh of relief. Greed had rescued her. But all she'd done was bought a little time, both for her
and, she hoped, the band.
The band. Shit, what a mess. Where were they? Where was Haskeer? What would become of the stars?
Who was there to help?
For a long, long time he had done nothing but watch. He had contented himself with observing events from afar and
trusting fate. But fate couldn 't be trusted. Things just got more involved, more unpredictable, and chaos loomed
ever larger.
The draining of the magic brought about by the destructive ways of the incomers meant that when he finally decided
to act even his powers were too unreliable, too weakened. He had to involve others in the search and that proved a
mistake.
Now the instrumentalities were back in the world, back in history, and it was just a matter of time before somebody
harnessed their power. Whether it would be used for good or ill was the only question that mattered a damn now.
He couldn't argue to himself any longer that none of it affected thisplace. Even his own extraordinary domain was
threatened. With his abilities diminishing it was all he could do to maintain its existence, notwithstanding that his
small elite of acolytes called him Mage and believed he was capable of anything.
It was time to take a more direct hand in what was happening. He had made mistakes and he had to try rectifying
them. Some things he could do to help. Others he couldn't.
But he saw what had been, and something of what was to come, and knew he might already be too late.
3
The large, spherical chamber, deep in the underground labyrinth of Scratch, was poorly lit. Such light as there was
came from innumerable, faintly glowing crystals embedded in the walls and roof, and from a few discarded torches
scattered about the floor. Half a dozen ovals of pitch blackness marked tunnels running off from the cavern. The air
was unwholesome.
Above two score trolls were gathered. Theirs was a squat, beefy race, covered in coarse grey fur and of waxen
complexion. Incongru-ously, their heads were crowned with a mass of vivid, rusty orange hair. Their chests were
expansive, their limbs overly long, and their eyes had evolved into vast black orbs to cope with subterranean
darkness.
For all Stryke and Alfray knew, the chamber was only a small part of the troll kingdom, and these warriors a fraction of
its population. But separated from the rest of their band by a rock fall, the Wolverine captain and corporal were
destined never to find out. Their hands were bound and they stood with their backs pressed against a sacrificial altar.
The trolls arrayed against them were armed with spears, and some had bows.
At their head was Tannar, the troll monarch. He stood taller than any other present. His build was brawnier than all
save the orcs. Robes of gold, a silver crown and the long, ornate crook he bore marked his status. But it was what he
held aloft in his other hand that mesmerised the captives. He brandished a curved-bladed sacrificial knife, and fixed to
its hilt was the very thing the Wolverines had braved Scratch to find.
One of the ancient instrumentalities. A relic the orcs referred to as a star.
The trolls were chanting a guttural dirge. Tannar slowly advanced,intent on murder in the name of his fearful
Cimmerian gods. Hardly crediting the bitter irony of their situation, Stryke and Alfray readied themselves for death as
the chanting reached a mesmeric pitch.
Eyeing the dagger, Alfray said, 'Some joke fate's played on us, eh?'
'Shame I don't feel like laughing.' Stryke strained at his bonds. They held firm.
Alfray glanced his way. 'It's been good, Stryke. Despite every-thing.'
'Don't give in, old friend. Even to death. Die like an orc.'
A mildly indignant look passed across Alfray's face. There's an-other way?'
The dagger was close.
There was a flash of light at the mouth of one of the tunnels. What followed seemed to Stryke like an hallucinogenic
experience brought on by pellucid. Something shot across the cavern. For a fragment of a second whatever it was left
an intensely bright yellow and red trail line.
Then a burning arrow struck the head of one of the trolls standing next to them. Sparks flew as the arrow hit, and the
impact knocked the troll to one side. His bushy mane burst into flames as he went down.
Tannar froze. The chanting stopped. A ripple of gasps ran through the chamber. The trolls turneden masse to face the
tunnel. There was a commotion there. Yells and shrieks rang out.
The rest of the Wolverines were fighting their way in. They were led by Jup, the band's dwarf sergeant, laying into the
startled enemy with a broadsword. Orc archers began picking off more targets with fire-tipped arrows. Light was
anathema to trolls and the flaming shafts sowed utter confusion in their ranks.
As best he could with hands tied, Stryke took advantage of the distraction. He rushed at the nearest troll and delivered
an orc's kiss, a vicious head-butt that buckled the creature's knees and dropped him like a dead weight. Alfray charged
an off-guard troll and rapidly kicked him twice in the crotch. The anguished victim collapsed with rolling eyes and
twisted mouth.
Tannar had lost interest in his captors and was bellowing orders. His subjects needed directing; their response to the
attack was sham-bolic. The entire chamber housed a furious battle, lit by bursts of illu-mination from winging arrows
and torches the orcs employed as clubs. Screams, wails and the clash of steel echoed from all sides.
A pair of orc grunts, Calthmon and Eldo, battled their way through the tumult to Alfray and Stryke. The prisoners'
bonds were slashed and weapons pressed into their eager hands. They immediately turned the blades on anything
that moved and wasn't a Wolverine.
Stryke wanted Tannar. To get to him he had to pass through a wall of defenders. He set about the task with a will. The
first troll blocking his path thrust a spear at him. Stryke sidestepped, avoiding the lunge by a whisker, and brought his
sword down hard on the spear. The blow sliced it in two. A stab to the bewildered spear-carrier's guts put him out of
the picture.
The next defender came at Stryke swinging an axe. He ducked and the cleaver whistled in an arc inches above his
head. As the troll pulled back to try again, Stryke bought a second's grace by lashing out at his shin with a boot. The
kick connected heavily. Unbalanced, the troll's next swing was wild, and well off its mark. Stryke exploited an opening
and slashed at his chest. The blade cut deep. Staggering a few steps and spraying blood, the troll went down.
Stryke moved in on another foe.
Jup was employed carving his way towards Stryke and Alfray. Be-hind him, grunts were igniting more brands, and the
light from them was increasingly affecting the trolls. As they covered their eyes, roaring, the band felled them. But
many were still fighting back.
Alfray faced a pair of trolls trying to corral him with levelled spears. He sparred with them, his sword bouncing off the
javelins' sharpened metal points. After a moment's to-ing and fro-ing, one opponent over-reached himself, his leading
arm exposed, and Alfray hacked into it. The troll screamed, let go of his spear and caught the full might of a follow-up
slash to the chest.
His maddened companion attacked. Alfray found himself being pushed back as he batted at the menacing spear tip,
trying to turn it aside. The troll was too determined for that and pushed on relentlessly. Alfray was close to being
pinned to the wall. With the tip jabbing un-comfortably close to his face, he fell into a stoop then pitched to one side,
fetching up next to the troll. He instantly aimed a blow at its legs. The blade sliced flesh, not badly but usefully. It sent
the troll into a limping retreat, his spear slackly held.
Alfray leapt to his feet and swung his blade at the creature's head. The troll dodged to the left. Twisting to
compensate, Alfray's blade turned in flight, so it was the flat, not the edge, that smacked against the troll's cheek. It
yelled its pain and came in with crazy eyes and thrashing spear. The reckless move suited Alfray. He evaded the
weapon with ease, spun himself parallel to the troll and sent in a blow. The blade chopped halfway through its neck. A
shower of crimson drenched the area.
Alfray expelled a breath from puffed cheeks and thought he was getting too old for this.
Slipping on blood underfoot, Stryke all but collided with the last of Tannar's defenders. This glowering troll had a
scimitar. He proceeded to slash with it ferociously, trying to drive the orc away from his mon-arch. Stryke stood his
ground and returned blow for blow. It was stale-mate for a moment or two as each fighter parried the other's attacks.
The breakthrough came when Stryke's blade rapped across the troll's knuckles and laid them open. Mouthing a curse,
the troll aimed a downward stroke that would have parted Stryke's sword arm from his trunk had it connected. Some
deft footwork on Stryke's part made sure it didn't. After that he swerved and took a chance on a swipe to the troll's
throat. It paid off.
At last he faced Tannar.
Racked with fury, the king tried braining Stryke with his ornamental crook. The orc was agile enough to avoid that.
Tannar threw the un-wieldy crook aside and drew a sword, its silvered blade inscribed with swirling runic patterns. He
still had the ceremonial dagger, and prepared to work the weapons in unison. Troll and orc squared off.
'What are you waiting for?' Tannar rumbled. Taste my steel and wake in Hades, overlander.'
Stryke laughed derisively. 'You talk a good fight, windbag. Now put your blade where your mouth is.'
They circled, each seeking a flaw in the other's guard.
Tannar eyed the combat going on all around. 'You'll pay for this with your life,' he vowed.
'So you said.' Stryke kept his tone insolent.
The goading had its effect. Tannar roared in with a swinging blow. Stryke checked it, the jarring impact he absorbed
bearing witness to the strength of his opponent. He sent in a quick counterblow. The king blocked it. Now that their
blades had met, the pair flowed into a regular exchange, attacking and defending by turn.
Tannar's style was all power and little subtlety, though that made him no less dangerous a foe. Stryke's technique was
not dissimilar, but he had the advantage of much more experience, and was certainly nim-bler. He also lacked Tannar's
bluster, which showed itself in excessive feigning. Stryke laid on some extra provocation.
'You're soft,' he taunted, swatting aside a pass. 'Lording it over this rabble's spoilt you, Tannar. It's made you mushy as
tallow.'
Bellowing, the troll charged at him, knife slashing the air, sword raking. Stryke braced himself and swiped, targeting the
point where hilt met blade. He struck true. The sword flew from Tannar's hand, clatter-ing beyond reach. He hung on to
the dagger with its precious ornament and brought it to bear. But the shock of losing his sword had turnedhim
leaden-footed. He hadn't a hope of besting Stryke with the knife and every move now was defensive.
The orc crowded him. Tannar began to back off. What he didn't know, but Stryke could see, was that Jup and a couple
of grunts had got themselves behind him. Stryke hurried the pace of Tannar's retreat with a torrent of blows.
Jup seized his opportunity. He leapt on to the monarch's back and threw an arm around his neck. With his other hand
he pressed a knife to Tannar's jugular. The dwarf's legs were clear of the ground and kicking. One of the grunts moved
in and pointed his sword at the king's heart. Tannar thundered his impotent anger. Stryke stepped forward and prised
the sacrificial dagger from his hand.
One or two trolls saw what was happening. Most were unaware and continued fighting.
'Tell them to stop,' Stryke demanded, 'on pain of your life.'
Tannar said nothing, eyes blazing defiance.
'Stop them or die,' Stryke repeated.
Jup applied pressure with his knife.
Reluctantly, Tannar shouted, Throw down your arms!'
Some of the trolls disengaged. Others kept on.
'Drop your weapons!'Tannar barked.
This time, all obeyed. Jup withdrew, but they kept the king well covered.
Stryke placed the ceremonial dagger at Tannar's throat. 'We're leaving. You're coming with us. If anybody gets in our
way, you're dead. Tell them.'
The king nodded slowly. 'Do as they say!' he yelled.
"You won't need this stuff.' Stryke said, 'it'll slow us.' He snatched Tannar's crown and threw it to one side.
The impiety brought intakes of breath from many of the watching trolls. Stryke inspired more when he ripped off the
king's elaborate robe and abandoned that in the dirt too.
He returned the dagger to Tannar's throat. 'Let's go.'
They began to move across the cavern, a knot of orcs and a dwarf surrounding the towering figure of their hostage.
Dazed trolls stood by and let them pass. As the procession made its way to the main tunnel, stepping over enemy
corpses, the rest of the band joined it. Several were lightly wounded. It seemed to Stryke that all the fallen were trolls.
At the tunnel mouth he yelled, 'Follow and he dies!'
Hurriedly they backed out of the chamber.
They made as good a pace as they could through the maze of unlit tunnels, their torches throwing huge, grotesque
shadows on the walls.
'Nice timing,' Stryke told Jup.'Tight, but nice.'
The dwarf smiled.
'How the hell did you get through the roof fall?' Alfray asked.
'We found another way,' Jup said. 'You'll see.'
They became aware of soft sounds behind them. Turning his head to squint into the darkness, Stryke could make out
dim, grey shapes in the distance.
'They'll hunt you down,' Tannar promised. 'You'll die before reaching the overland.'
'Then you'll be joining us.' Stryke realised he was practically whis-pering. To the rest of the band, he ordered, 'Stay
together, keep alert. Particularly the rearguard.'
'Don't think they need telling, chief,' Jup said.
A minute or two later they entered the tunnel where the fall took place. Twenty paces ahead it was shut off by weighty
boulders and rubble. Before they got to the blockage they came to a crudely cut hole in the wall on their right. The wall
was thin, of shale-like material, and another tunnel ran behind it. They began to clamber through. Tannar needed
prodding.
'How did this come about, Jup?' Stryke asked.
'Funny what you can do when needs must. This is that dead-end tunnel running from the entrance. Had the band
sound the walls with hatchets. We got lucky.'
The new passageway took them to another chamber, not unlike a pit, that lay below the shaft to the surface. There was
weak light above. A couple of tense grunts were waiting by a brace of dangling ropes. Peering up the shaft, Stryke saw
the heads of two more.
'Move it!' he ordered.
The first band members started to climb. Tannar was stubborn. They lashed a rope around him and hauled him up
hand over hand. He cursed all the way. Stryke was the last to leave, the blade of the ceremonial dagger clamped in his
teeth.
A small cave housed the shaft. Morning light flooded through its entrance. Stryke and the others came out of it
blinking.
Tannar covered his eyes with a hand. This is pain to me!' he com-plained loudly.
'Put this on him,' Alfray suggested, passing over a cloth.
As the king was blindfolded and led off stumbling, Stryke held back and examined the sacrificial dagger. The star was
attached to its hilt with a tight winding of twine. He took his own knife, cut through this and discarded the dagger.
The star was recognisable as such but differed from the other two, as they differed from each other. In the light he
could see that it was dark blue in colour, whereas the first one they found was yellow, the second green. Like the
others it consisted of a round central ball with spikes radiating from it, apparently randomly. It had four spikes; they
had seven and five respectively. The same incredibly tough but unknown material had been used to make it. 'Comeon,
Stryke!' Alfray called.
He crammed the star into his belt pouch and jogged after them. The band headed for their base camp at speed, or at
least as fast as they could with Tannar slowing them. They were greeted by Bhose and Nep, and neither grunt tried to
disguise his relief.
'We have to get out of here, fast,' Stryke told them all. 'It might be day but I wouldn't put it past them to venture out for
him.' He nodded at Tannar.
'Wait, Stryke,' Jup said.
'Wait? What do you mean, wait?'
'I've got to tell you something about Coilla and Haskeer.'
Stryke looked around. 'Where are they?'
‘This isn't easy, Captain.'
'Whatever it is, just make it quick!'
'All right, short version. Haskeer went berserk, battered Reafdaw here and made off with the stars.'
'What?'Stryke felt as though he'd been poleaxed.
'Coilla went after him,' Jup continued. 'We haven't seen either since.'
'Went. . . went where?'
'North, far as we know.'
'As far as you know?'
‘I had to make a decision, Stryke. It was either search for Coilla and Haskeer or try to get you and Alfray out of that
warren. We couldn't do both. Rescuing you seemed the best use of resources.'
Stryke was absorbing the news. 'No . . . no, you're right.' His face darkened. 'Haskeer! That stupid, crazybastard!’
That illness, fever, whatever it was,' Alfray said, 'it had him acting oddly for days.'
'I never should have left him,' Stryke decided. That or taken the stars with me.'
'You're being too hard on yourself,' Jup ventured. 'Nobody knew he'd do something so lunatic.'
‘I ought to have seen it coming. The way he behaved when I let him look at the stars, it was . . . deranged.'
‘There's no point in breast-beating,’ Alfray told him. 'What do wedo about it?'
'We go after them, of course. I want us ready to leave here in two minutes.'
'What about him?' Jup asked, indicating Tannar.
'He stays with us for now. Collateral.'
The grunts broke camp at speed and the horses were readied. Tannar was manhandled on to one and his hands lashed
to the pommel on its saddle. The cache of pellucid was divided up among the band members, as it had been before the
underground sortie. Alfray found the Wolver-ines' banner and reclaimed it.
As Stryke moved off at the head of the band his head buzzed with possibilities. All of them bad.
4
Everything seemed so clear to Haskeer now, so obvious. The fog that clouded his mind had lifted and he knew exactly
what needed to be done.
Spurring his horse, he entered another valley that would take him further north-east. Or at least he hoped it would. In
truth his new clarity didn't extend to all his senses, and he was a little hazy about the precise direction in which
Cairnbarrow lay. But he pushed on none the less.
For the hundredth time his hand went instinctively to his belt pouch, where he had the strange objects the warband
called stars. Mobbs, the gremlin scholar who had told the Wolverines something about them, said their proper name
was instrumentalities. Haskeer preferred stars. It was easier to remember.
He didn't know what the objects were or what they were supposed to do, any more than Stryke and the others did. But
although he couldn't understand the stars' purpose, something had happened. Something that made him feel he had a
kind of union with them.
They sang to him.
Sang wasn't the right word. It was the nearest he could come up with for what he heard in his head. He might have
thought of it as whispering or chanting or the faint sound of an unknown musical in-strument, and would have been
just as inaccurate. So he settled for singing.
He could hear them doing it now, even while they were in his pouch and out of sight. The things that looked like a
hatchling's idea of stars were vocalising at him. Their language, if that's what it was, meant nothing to Haskeer, yet he
caught its gist. It told him everything would be all right once he got them to where they belonged. The balance
wouldbe restored. Things would go back to being the way they were before the Wolverines went renegade.
All he had to do was take the stars to Jennesta. He expected her to be so grateful she'd pardon the band. Perhaps even
reward them. Then Stryke and the other Wolverines would appreciate what he'd had to do, and be grateful.
Leaving the valley, he came to a trail. It seemed to run the way he wanted to go, so he joined it. The track climbed to a
rise and he urged his already lathering horse upward to the crest.
When he reached the top he saw a group of riders coming the other way. They were four in number. And they were
humans.
They were all dressed in black, and each was more than adequately armed. One of them had the disgusting facial
growth their kind called a beard.
Haskeer was too close to avoid being seen, or to turn back without them easily catching him. But in his present mood
he didn't care about being seen. His only thought was that it was bad enough them being humans, worse that they
were in his path. He wasn't going to tolerate anything that delayed him.
The humans looked taken aback at running into a lone orc in the middle of nowhere. They glanced around
suspiciously for sign of others as they galloped towards him. Haskeer kept to the trail and didn't slacken pace. He only
stopped when they blocked him, their mounts in a semicircle not much more than a sword's length away.
They took in his weather-beaten, craggy features, the crescent-shaped sergeant's tattoos on his cheeks, the string of
snow leopard teeth at his throat.
He stared back, evenly, hard-faced.
The bearded human seemed to be their leader. He said, 'He's one of them all right.' His companions nodded.
'Ugly bastard, ain't he?' a clean-shaven one opined.
They laughed.
Haskeer heard them over the stars' beguiling song. Its urgency couldn't be denied.
'Are there more of your band around, orc?' the bearded one de-manded.
'Just me. Now move.'
That set them laughing again.
Another clean-shaven had his say. 'It's you that's moving, back to our master. Dead or alive.'
'Don't think so.'
The bearded rider leaned in to Haskeer. 'You sub-humans are lower than swine when it comes to head work. Try and
understand this, stupid. In that saddle or over it, you're coming with us.'
'Stand aside. I'm in a hurry.'
The leader's expression turned flint-like. ‘I'm not telling you again.' His hand went to his sword.
'Your horse is better than mine,' Haskeer decided. 'I'll be tak-ing it.'
This time there was a pause before they laughed, and it sounded less assured.
Haskeer gently tugged the reins of his mount, turning it slightly. He slipped his feet from the stirrups. A warm feeling
began radiating from the pit of his stomach. He recognised the sign of an imminent frenzy and welcomed it like an old
friend.
The bearded human glared. ‘I'm going to cut your tongue out, you freak.' He started to draw his sword.
Haskeer leapt at him. He struck square, slamming into the human's chest. Locked together, they plunged from the
horse's other side and hit the ground, Haskeer on top. Taking the brunt of the fall, the human was knocked senseless.
Haskeer rained punches on him, quickly rendering his face a bloody, pulpy mess.
The other riders were yelling. One jumped down from his mount and rushed in with sword drawn. Haskeer rolled aside
from his lifeless victim, scrambling to his feet just as the swordsman launched an attack. Backing off fast from the
slashing blade, Haskeer wrenched free his own sword, levelling it to deflect the blows.
As they duelled, the two mounted riders jockeyed to take swipes at him. Dodging their blows, and the careening
horses, Haskeer concen-trated on the nearest threat. He drove forward, bombarding the human with a relentless series
of hefty strikes. Soon he had his opponent in defensive mode, all his energy directed to fending off Haskeer's
on-slaught.
Ten seconds later Haskeer went into a feint, skirted an ill-judged swing and brought his blade down on the human's
forearm. Still grip-ping the sword, the severed limb portion fell away. His stump pumping blood, the screaming human
pitched headlong beneath the hooves of a rearing horse.
While its rider fought to disentangle his mount, Haskeer went for the other horseman. His method was straightforward.
Snatching the reins he pulled down with all his strength, as though tugging a bell rope to warn of invasion. The rider
was hurled from his saddle and smashedinto the earth. Delivering a hearty kick to his head, Haskeer vaulted on to the
animal's back. Bringing the horse about, he faced the last oppo-nent.
Spurs biting into his mount's flanks to impel it forward, the black-garbed human met him. Haskeer engaged his
whipping sword. They hacked at each other savagely, chopping, bludgeoning, trying to find a way through to flesh,
all the while fighting to control their wheeling horses.
At length, Haskeer's stamina proved the greater. His continuous battering found less and less resistance. Then his
strikes began to evade the human's guard. One scored, raking the man's arm and bringing a pained cry. Haskeer kept
on with new-found vigour, dealing unstoppable passes, hacking like a crazed thing. The human's guard vanished. A
well-aimed slash hewed inches deep into chest tissue. He toppled.
Haskeer steadied his new horse and surveyed the corpses. He felt no particular triumph at overcoming the odds; he
was more irritated at having been held up. Wiping the gory blade on his sleeve, he returned it to its sheath. Yet again
his hand unconsciously went to the belt pouch.
He was reorienting himself, figuring which way to go now, when his attention was caught by movement at the corner
of his eye. Looking west, he saw another party of humans, also dressed in black, galloping in his direction. He
reckoned there were thirty or forty of them.
Even in his battle-crazed state he knew he couldn't fight a mob of that size single-handed. He urged the horse forward
and fled.
The stars filled his mind with their singing.
On a hilltop a quarter of a mile away, another group of humans watched the tiny figure riding across the plains, and a
band of their fellows pursuing it.
Foremost of the watchers was a lofty, slender individual, dressed like his Uni companions in head-to-toe black. Unlike
them, he wore a tall, round, black hat. The garment was a sign of his authority, though none present would have
questioned his leadership whether he wore it or not.
His face was best described as resolute, and showed no hint of ever having been burdened with a smile. Greying
whiskers adorned an acute chin, the mouth was a bloodless slit, his eyes were dark and brooding.
Kimball Hebrew's mood, not unusually, was apocalyptic.
'Why do You forsake me, Lord?' he ranted skyward. 'Why let the ungodly, inhuman vermin go unpunished for defying
Your servant?'
He turned to his followers, his inner elite known as custodians, and berated them. 'Even the simple task of hunting
down the heathen monsters is beyond you! You have the Creator's blessing through me, His worldly disciple, yet still
you fail!'
They avoided his gaze, sheepishly.
'Be certain that I can take back what I have bestowed in His exalted name!' he threatened. 'Return what is rightfully the
Lord's, and mine! Go forth now and smite the depraved sub-humans! Let them feel the wrath!'
His followers ran for their horses.
Down on the plain, the orc renegade and the humans chasing him were almost lost from sight.
Hobrow sank to his knees. 'Lord, why am I cursed with such fools?' he implored.
摘要：

1Deathmovedsinuouslythroughthewater.Grimpurposesetherfacelikestone.Shediveddeep,impellingherselfwithpowerfulstrokesfromsplayed,webbedhands.Herebonyhairflowedfree,aninkysquidcloudbillowinginherwake.Tinythreadsofbubblesstreamedfromherpalpitatinggills.Shelookedback.Hernyaddraidingswarm,massedranksswim­...

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